The Life He Led
by AnabelleG
Summary: Booth and Brennan deal with the aftermath of his diagnosis and surgery.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So while I think that "5 Hours and 37 Minutes" is destined to remain a one-shot, I still find myself stuck on the subject matter, trying to reconcile that who-are-you ending of the season finale. This is (hopefully) going to be a few chapters in that vein, and (again hopefully) it will come together into something that makes that last line a little more….palatable?**

**A genuine thank you to everyone for their encouragement during this little writing streak of mine, and always I hope you find this interesting. -Ana**

* * *

This was the life he led.

He woke up at 6:30 every morning, grumbling as he turned off the alarm clock but not really meaning it. Brushed his teeth, took a shower and then picked a suit, picked a tie. Headed downstairs ready to start his day.

In the kitchen, he found his wife at the stove or the sink and wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. Their little good-morning ritual. Sometimes, if they were alone, he would slip a hand under her robe to cup her breast, or she would lean back into him with a suggestive sway of her hips. Most of the time though it was a just a silent hello, the kids already at the table behind them talking about the upcoming school day or asking for pancakes shaped like bunnies.

Bacon and eggs, glass of milk and some toast. Then, with a kiss on the cheek and a cup of coffee, he was out the door, the sounds of the search for backpacks, permission slips and missing tennis shoes still echoing behind him.

His commute, the day in the office, usually passed in an easy blur. The work wasn't hard, the people on his team were good but never took themselves too seriously. He'd learned a long time ago that the job didn't have to define who he was—so he was just as pleased to open the office door in the morning as he was too loosen his tie at the end of the day.

No later than 6:30 each evening, he opened the front gate and made his way up the short walkway to the front steps of his home, more often than not forced to step over a discarded bicycle or skateboard. On a really good day, one of the boys would be at the hoop over the garage and he would take a detour, shedding his jacket for a quick pick-up game.

At least two days a week, he entered the front door to the sound of piano music. Every other day was for ballet or gymnastics or soccer, but on Mondays and Thursday he knew he could her practicing after her lesson, her legs swinging beneath the piano bench because she couldn't yet reach the foot pedals. As soon as she saw him, she would abandon Itsy Bitsy Spider and run to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Carrying her on his hip, he would head to the home office at the end of the hallway to retrieve his wife. Some days he had to wade through a flurry of post-it notes, others he would find her tapping a pencil on the desk as she stared out the window. But no matter the circumstances, she never failed to close the laptop before he could get a peek at the screen. He wasn't allowed to read her novels until the first draft was done. He didn't mind the wait, but still paid her back by teasing her with the nickname she pretended to hate. _Don't call me that_ didn't carry as much weight when she followed it up with a smile and a quick kid-in-the-room kiss.

The next couple hours were busy ones. Make sure the kids didn't feed their broccoli to the dog again. Multiplication tables and spelling words. Help fold laundry, walk the dog. Bath time, story time and one more glass of water.

After that he might grab a beer, catch the end of the game. But he didn't mind if she nudged him to the back deck with a glass of wine in hand. They kept an old radio out there, tuned to the jazz station she liked, and he could sneak in a slow dance and a not so quick, no-kids-in-the-room kiss.

Later he stretched out on his side of the bed, watching for her finish up with the face cream and all of the other girly stuff, thinking that she looked just as good in one of his t-shirts and an old pair of socks as she did in the frilly stuff he bought for her at the mall. Another few minutes and she curled up next to him as he reached for the light. And every night, just before his eyes closed, he felt her hand sliding into his.

This was the life he led.

Until one day, when the alarm clock sounded and he opened his eyes, there was no clatter from the kitchen, no parade of little feet up and down the stairs. Instead, he found her standing next to his bed talking about tumors and surgery and anesthesia. Even as he struggled through haze, he understood that she was his partner, knew that this was Bones, but still he saw the woman from the life he'd dreamed.

"Who are you?" he asked, a part of him wondering how she would answer even as he felt the last of that dream fading away.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So I know that I took a few liberties with Booth's dream in the previous chapter, but there is a method to the madness so to speak, and hopefully this next bit will begin to put my little what-if into context. Thanks to everyone for reading and for the reviews—and hope that you find this interesting. -Ana**

She winced at the intrusive sting, and looked down, surprised to find the thin red crescent along her thumbnail. It had been years since she had done that, picked and worried at her cuticles until she drew blood. Grabbing a tissue from the box on the nearby table, she quickly pressed against the tiny wound, wiping away the evidence of her lack of control.

Sighing, she scanned the small room, looking for something to occupy her thoughts. She'd already read every flyer on the bulletin board, organized the ancient magazines scattered on the tables, straightened the three rows of uncomfortable chairs. She considered the vending machine in the corner but after four days her stomach rebelled at the idea of another cup of watery coffee. Frustrated with the lack of distraction, she covered her face with her hands, wondering why she simply didn't leave. It was readily apparent that she wasn't needed here.

She could have been home an hour ago. Or at the lab. The list of obligations awaiting her attention was endless. Especially now that she had deleted her only draft of the short story. The deadline for the annual mystery writers' anthology was days away and she had nothing to deliver. Her eyes went to the laptop case at her feet and quickly darted away.

What had she been thinking, writing a story like that in the first place? Objectively, she knew that it was probably the best thing she'd ever written. There were characters with real depth, a plot that held tight to suspense but left room for wit and emotion. The prose clearly defined each scene and the dialogue snapped back from the page with an almost effortless voice. Even as she typed the last sentences, the final words of her pulp-fiction philosopher, she knew that it was good. Just as she knew that no one would ever read it.

She could virtually script Nina's response. _Too fluffy, Temperance, not enough substance—where's the angst and all of those gory details?_ On another day, for another piece, such a superficial dismissal would have made her bristle, whatever the editor's level of expertise. Except—rock bands and nightclubs, the happily ever after ending complete with baby on the way—it wasn't the type of story she wrote. One that definitely didn't meet the request for a forensics laden perspective that Nina had specifically requested for the anthology. So after only a reflexive hesitation, the file was purged, and with it the feeling that she had been foolish to consider such a flight of fancy, one that strayed too far from the world as she knew it. Too far from the truth.

_Or maybe it was a little too close._

It was the same thought that appeared in those seconds of hesitation just before she deleted everything, the same thought she hoped would disappear as easily as the fantasy world that she created, the one populated with characters that wore the faces of her friends and colleagues, her partner.

Even she couldn't miss the irony. With one keystroke, she'd dismissed the fairy tale and eradicated the possibilities it revealed. Then Booth woke up with no memory of who she was.

_My fault._

One wildly irrational, emotional thought among the many assaulting her when she looked into his unfocused eyes. Concern. Fear. Hurt. Anger. Dismay. Imbalance. Different angles of a single question. What did it mean that he could forget her?

It was the concern for him that centered her, forcing her back to her chair as first nurses, then doctors, descended on the room. They encircled the bed, blocking her view, but she kept her vigil through their initial examination and the battery of questions that followed. Unable to see him, she keyed on the sound of his voice, searching each response for some evidence of his condition.

The year. The President. His name and age. Parker. His job, complete with title. The hospital and his reason for being there. He was able to address the doctors by name and remembered the pretty blond nurse that prepared his IV more than four days ago. As the back and forth continued, she quietly slipped from the room, knowing two things with certainty. Booth was going to be alright. And the only person he failed to recognize was her.

She made it no further than the drab waiting room around the corner from the surgical intensive care unit before she lost direction. Unable to move forward and accept that what happened was simply an artifact of the anesthesia. Afraid to go back into his room and find that it wasn't. Purgatory, Booth would call it. For the first time she understood what that meant.

Now, more than hour had passed while she watched the parade of people pass the open doorway. Not one looked in her direction, their focus on the room just down the hall. Rebecca and Parker. Sid, then Cullen. Cam, Jack and Angela in a loose knot, with Sweets trailing not far behind. She imagined the relief on their faces as they saw him awake, the smiles as he welcomed them by name.

She froze at the faint sound of a child's laughter. _Parker_. Sudden shame bloomed heavy, smothering the tangled mess that had trapped her.

_Selfish_. _An emotional, egocentric overreaction. _

Angry with herself, she wiped at her eyes then steeled her shoulders and set about gathering her things. She bent to retrieve her laptop, slowly straightening at the sound of approaching footsteps. By the time she turned around, Angela was only a few feet away.

"So this is where you've been," Angela said, appraising the small space with a raised eyebrow before turning back to her. "What's going on, Bren?"

"Angela. I—I was…," she paused, unable to frame thought from the last hour into a reasonable explanation.

"Hiding?"

The knowing look in her friend's eyes sapped the last of Brennan's reticence, prodding her into action.

"Leaving," she replied firmly.

Ignoring Angela's surprise at her brusque correction, she slipped the strap of her bag onto her shoulder as she moved toward the exit. She was tired. Whatever reserves remaining after the last several days were gone. The questions, the advice, the discussion would have to wait.

Until Angela made certain that it wouldn't.

"He's asking for you."


End file.
